Bran Mac Lyr stood stock still and let the fire wash over Gabrial's shield. The heat was intense, sweat erupted from his every pore, and bits of flame worked their way past the shield to singe his hair and burn away his eyebrows. But it didn't kill him. The shield held. When the tide abated, he lowered the shield, steaming in the wintry air, and squinted his eyes at the Wyrm.
<Interesting,> the Wyrm's rumbling voice echoed in Bran's mind. <I expected you to be a smear of tissue by now. I can see I have my work cut out for me.> Bran wasn't sure, but he thought the Wyrm's mindvoice had taken a decidedly sarcastic edge.
"Fuck you too, pal," Bran said under his breath. Louder, he added, "You betcha, you fat piece of shit! You can't burn me down, and you can't muscle me around. I'm going to ram this sword so far down your throat, you'll be tasting it for millennia."
Instead of answering, the Wyrm reared up, twisting its sinuous body into an S-shape. The gigantic mouth opened, revealing rows of serrated teeth, and it hissed. Then, with the speed of a one thousand foot long cobra, it lunged at Bran.
It wasn't an attack the shield could deflect. Bran launched himself into the air, leaping towards the humped shapes of cars buried by the snow, and hoped that Lugh would smile kindly upon him.
There was a tremendous crash behind him as the Wyrm shattered the street where Bran had stood. Bran tumbled to the snowy ground and rolled into the side of an automobile. The Celt scrambled to his feet quickly, and looked up into a crimson eyeball that was larger than the shield he held in his hand.
The Wyrm blinked, and then reared up again, spitting blocks of pavement from its jaws. Bran darted in close and slashed with his rune-etched blade. The sword bit deep, tearing open a slash in the Wyrm's hide six feet long. Black blood bubbled free, splashing to the ground where it bubbled and seethed. A few drops flew at Bran, and where the fell, they burned.
The Wyrm screamed in outrage and pain; Bran's attack had startled the monster. It hadn't expected him to be able to cut through its scales.
Bran heard a hissing sound, and raised his shield just in time to catch the flood of fire, as it once more enveloped him.
He heard a crack as the Wyrm's shuddering coils shattered buildings, and despite the danger the fire presented, Bran bounded away from the Wyrm's flank like a hare, narrowly evading the crushing weight of the beast. He felt fire wash across his back and catch on his clothing, and he turned his jump into a tumble, trying to extinguish the flames in the snow.
<You will pay dearly for that insult, insect,> the Wyrm growled ominously. The Wyrm reoriented itself so that the blazing orbs of its eyes fell upon Bran's supine form. Those crimson eyes blazed with hatred and -- yes, a glimmer of pain. Perhaps Gabrial had spoken the truth, and Bran's sword, the Ray of Indra, was the bane of the Wyrm.
<My children will tear you apart,> hissed the Wyrm.
Children? Bran scrambled to his feet, watching the Wyrm warily for any sign of attack. "What children?" he muttered.
Over the roar of the burning buildings, the heaving breath of the great serpent, and the settling stones of collapsed structures, Bran caught the wavering sound of a wolf's howl.
Perseus pumped the break, but even the wheels of the jeep found the road's surface extremely slippery, and the vehicle slid across the road despite Perseus' care. He muttered an oath that had been common when Alexander ruled the world, and grimaced as the jeep came narrowly close to wrapping itself around a streetlight. Perseus was able to swerve, though, saving himself and the car. When he drew to a halt, the jeep had hopped the curb and straddled the sidewalk and the street.
"Good enough," Selura offered from the passenger seat.
"Where did you learn to drive, Percy?" Mitra asked. "At a demolition derby?" The Wraith Alec Scott, sitting beside the Hindu Immortal in the back seat, kept his own counsel.
"Shut up Mitra," Perseus said absently, popping the door open and exiting the car. He ignored Mitra's spluttering mock indignation, as well as the annoying beep that notified him he had left the key in the ignition.
There was an ill wind blowing in New Orleans, a cold wind that promised Armageddon and decay. It had followed the foursome into the city from the suburbs where Perseus kept his home, and it had plagued them as they navigated their way through the frozen alleys of the quiet city streets. Perseus ran a thumb over the hood of the jeep, tracing a gouge in the finish left by one of the werewolves that had attacked them in a frenzy ten blocks back.
"This does not look heartening, Percy," Selura said as she exited the car herself. She gestured at the pile of rubble and stone that squatted a scant five feet from the front bumper of the jeep. A pile of rubble and stone that used to be the Belvedere Hotel.
Perseus made his way to the wreckage, and leaned down to pick up a chunk of masonry. He felt Selura draw close, laying a hand on his shoulder. "There was a Quickening here," he told her needlessly. He tossed the rock away. "A big one."
"Bran? Or Viracocha?"
"Who knows," Perseus said bitterly. "Probably both, the way our luck is running."
"Aren't you the man who once told me there's no such thing as luck?" Mitra asked. He had deserted the jeep to examine the rubble on his own, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his long coat.
Perseus stood, and was dismayed to hear his knees crack. His new body still held a few surprises. He turned to the Hindu. "You're the expert tracker, Mitra. What do you see?"
Mitra raised an eyebrow, and seemed on the verge of making a quip, but decided against it upon seeing the Greek's stormy expression. "Let me take a look around," he said instead.
Selura fit her hand into Perseus', and squeezed reassuringly. She leaned in close, her warm breath caressing his cheek, and said, "Don't give up hope. We'll pull through yet, my dear." Perseus said nothing, but returned her squeeze. They watched as Mitra began to walk along the side of the street, his sharp eyes examining the destruction of the hotel, the patterns in the snow around it, and whatever clues were left behind by those who had been there before.
All three Immortals started as the engine of the jeep revved to life.
Perseus spun on his heel, his sword appearing in his hand as if by magic, and watched as Alec Scott backed the jeep into the road, spun around, and tore off in the other direction. Perseus took one step after him, but Selura grabbed his arm and held him back. "Let him go," she said. "He's needed elsewhere."
Perseus remained tense for a moment, and then relaxed. "I suppose he is," he said. Selura patted his arm, and then turned him around, so that they could watch Mitra at his task once more.
The Hindu appeared hardly perturbed at the Wraith's departure. He was on one knee in the snow, tracing something with his finger. Then he let out a quiet "a-ha," and slowly stood. His knees didn't crack, Perseus noticed, and then quickly squashed the thought.
"What have you found?" Selura asked.
"A bit of flesh," Mitra explained, showing his prize, "with a layer of hair upon it."
"A scalp?" Perseus said with a scowl.
Mitra shook his head. "Nothing so prosaic," he said. "It's part of a werewolf. There are bits of one scattered all about here in the snow; none much larger than this. A bit odd, since Lycanthropes tend to revert to human form upon death. But then, this one didn't die in any ordinary way." He tossed the bit of flesh to Perseus, who caught it deftly with his free hand. "Someone or something blew it to pieces."
"But... that should be impossible," Selura said slowly.
Mitra nodded. "My guess is magic is involved somewhere."
"Viracocha is alive, then?" Perseus asked, dropping the bit of werewolf once more into the snow.
Mitra shook his head. "I don't think so; there are two sets of tracks made by people who left the destroyed hotel. Both are much too large to be our South American mage. On the plus side, I'm almost certain Bran survived."
"Almost certain?"
"I think he was dragged free of the rubble by someone else; someone who could fly. The tracks of the rescuer appear infrequently, and there's no sign of anyone approaching this area or leaving it. There is a muddle that suggests someone landed or teleported here, dragged someone out of the hotel, stood here quietly for a while and then took his prize away using the same trick that enabled him to arrive."
Perseus frowned. Flight or teleportation suggested a Gargoyle or a Nightbane. Very few Immortals, Perseus was intimately aware, knew the secrets of teleportation or flight.
Selura's next question broke through Perseus' grim thoughts. "And the other tracks? The one's that leave the hotel?"
Mitra's teeth flashed in a shark's smile. "Whoever it is, he's big. He killed one werewolf," Mitra said, gesturing at a hump of snow in the road that Perseus now realized was a body, "and somehow caused another werebeast to explode. Then, he calmly walked off due south." The smile flashed again.
Perseus spun the sword in his hands. "Let's go ask him some questions," he growled.
"This is going to be easy," Hazard grinned.
"Don't get cocky," Victoria Baron warned at his elbow. Both the Vampire and the CIA trained assassin stood knee deep in the newly fallen snow, observing the length of electrified fence that guarded the Franklin Enterprises compound.
The snow behind them crunched, and Victoria turned to see Henry Jones, Immortal member of the Mystery Council, approaching, a sawed-off shotgun cradled in his hands. "Kurt and Shelley are getting the rest of the gear out of the truck. Where's Gold?"
Hazard gestured with his chin at a patch of shadow beneath a dying willow tree. "He's looming in the darkness, playing at being sinister and spooky." Jones snorted in derision. Hazard ignored the Immortal. Victoria saw his nostrils flare, and the Vampire beginning to frown.
"What is it boy?" Victoria asked.
Hazard neglected to comment on her forced attempt at levity. "Humans. And gasoline. I can hear an engine humming too..."
"One of the patrols," Jones said. The Vampire ignored him, glancing instead at Victoria. He pulled his sunglasses down a bit, revealing his crystal blue eyes. Victoria flinched despite herself; the heat from Hazard's eyes made her shiver.
Before she had a moment to think about it, she said, "Get them."
There was a flash of black, the snap of a leather jacket sounding in the cold February air, and the Vampire was gone, launching himself over the fence with a single bound, and disappearing into the night. Victoria checked the space beneath the willow tree. It was empty.
She suppressed another shiver.
"Where did Mike go in such a hurry?" Kurt asked, trudging through the snow to join Vic and Jones. Shelley walked beside Kurt, her long saber hanging at her side and a bag of grenades in her hand. Kurt carried a short bow, and a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. When Vic had questioned the practicality of such an old weapon, Densmore had simply smiled enigmatically and told her to trust him.
"They caught a scent," Jones supplied. "I think they're procuring us some transportation."
Kurt nodded grimly. It was a sore point with him; of all the group, it was he who found the casual murder of human beings, even humans who served the dark prince Mephistopheles, unsettling. It had taken time for him to be convinced of the necessity of it, but eventually he had accepted that Hazard and Gold would have to do it to ensure the success of the mission. But he didn't have to like it.
Shelley laid a hand on his arm, and Kurt caught it with his own hand, squeezing tightly.
The four stood quietly in the gloom, silent and still. Their breath steamed in the cold night, and those clouds of crystals were the sole evidence that any of them were animated at all. Victoria felt her toes begin to numb, but the iron core of strength that Perseus had lent her kept her from shuffling her feet to keep them warm. She looked up at the ominous sky, and wondered if it was all worth it.
But then, as suddenly as he had gone, Hazard reappeared, jogging out of the darkness on cat's feet, barely leaving a mark in the snow. He had blood on his chin and dripping from his hands.
There was a sharp intake of breath from Shelley, and Victoria steeled herself to keep from betraying any emotion of her own. At her side, Jones casually hefted the shotgun.
"What happened?" Kurt asked the Vampire. "Where's Gold?"
Hazard made no reply. Instead, he grabbed hold of the fence, ignoring the shock of electricity that hammered into him, and ripped the metal links as if they were tissue paper. Sparks of light danced before him, and he widened the gap, tearing away the fence to make a hole large enough for two men to walk through abreast.
"Are you insane?" Victoria hissed, producing two pistols from beneath her jacket, despite herself. "You've just set off the alarm!"
Hazard's expression was grim. "Too late for that shit, Vickie. I fucked up big time already; Gold was a double agent, a black hat. He's working for Mephisto, probably has been all this time. He knows our plans and he's on the way to warn the Demon. No time for stealth; it's time for haste." The Vampire gestured for them to run through the hole in the fence. "C'mon, before tonight goes completely to hell."
Mephisto in his dark armor sat upon his throne, his chin cupped in his right hand, a goblet of untouched wine in the other. The light from the torches reacted strangely with his armor, creating bizarre patterns of light and shadow on the metal as the flames danced.
Wotan, blind and nervous, reclined at the base of Mephisto's throne. His sword was bare and laid across his knees, and the German Immortal caressed the length of the blade with his hands. A dozen feet away from Wotan stood Adam Franklin, the sallow skinned giant who owned the corporation hosting Mephistopheles and his court.
In the center of the room was the altar, flanked on either side by great vats bubbling over with warm blood, and surrounded by cult members in white robes, kneeling and chanting. Atop the altar, Huixopotchtli held his knife and watched the last few drops of blood drain from the final sacrifice; the blood flowed down the altar, along grooves incised in the basalt rock, and into the vats of blood. The stench of the fluid gave the air of the room a copper taste, though no one present seemed uncomfortable with the odor.
"He's finished," Huixopotchtli called, laying his knife down beside the corpse. The Aztec Immortal grimaced a little as he grabbed hold of the body and lifted it off the altar. He dragged it through the ring of cultists and dropped the corpse on the floor with a wet thump. As Huixopotchtli stepped away, a pair of shadows detached themselves from the closest wall and approached the body. Wispy, thin, and mostly transparent, the ghostly figures assaulted the body with smoky claws. The Aztec turned away.
Mephistopheles carefully stood, his armor chinking noisily with each of his movements. "Then," he said, "we're ready for the final ingredient."
He was about to say more, but the heavy door that lead further into the tower burst open, ' and Paul Gold the Vampire suantered into the room.
Mephistopheles raised an eyebrow. "You're late."
Gold shrugged. "I was unavoidably detained," the Vampire apologized. He nodded towards Franklin, who returned the gesture, and ignored the Immortals. "I have some news."
Mephisto stared at him a moment. Wotan fidgeted, tracing the edge of his sword with his thumb. Adam straightened, uncrossing his arms and slipping his hands into his pockets. Huixopotchtli tried to ignore the shadows as they fed.
Certain he had everyone's attention, Gold began. "I've spent the last two nights in the company of Michael Hazard and his companions. Some of them are here. Right behind me, in fact. But the rest of them are scattered all over the downtown area."
Mephistopheles took a few steps down from the throne. "How?"
"Hazard came to see me the other night, and tried to recruit my help in stopping our plans. I thought the irony was too delicious to ignore, so I took the hand he offered. It helped that your creations appeared at the same moment to recover the... item I've been saving for you. Though it would probably be in our best interests if they *hadn't* killed all my Vampire followers. We could probably use a few dozen of them right now."
"Hardly, my friend. We are on the cusp of a new age, and nothing those self-proclaimed heroes can do will stop it."
"Are you sure of that?" Gold asked, a hint of steel in his voice. "The Wraith of Gabrial's is downtown, hunting your four horsemen. The Revenant and Hazard are *here*, and the Revenant has a mistletoe arrow. Viracocha his bloody self is downtown, and though Bran Mac Lyr is probably dead, Perseus survived the conflagration in Hong Kong. If that is *not* enough cause for worry, then tell me, Mephisto, what is?"
Mephisto glowered. "Perseus alive? Unsettling news, indeed. But still, there is little even he can do. I have already engineered the destruction of the Immortals, by helping along the resurrection of their greatest enemy, the Kurgan. He will destroy them before Perseus or Viracocha can do a thing. As to the Wraith... the Wyrm is loose, Paul. No mere spirit can oppose the serpent in all his wrath. What do I have to fear from a Nightbane with a bow when I have all of you to look after me?"
"And then, of course, there is the simple fact that it is too late. Too late for any of them to stop me." Mephisto smiled, his sharp white teeth gleaming. He gestured at Franklin. "Adam, put Wotan on the altar."
Wotan stiffened. "What?" he cried. He found the hilt of his blade and stumbled to his feet. Franklin was nonplused. He moved with astonishing speed for one so large, and wrapped a massive hand around Wotan's wrist, squeezing until the Immortal dropped his weapon. Franklin's other hand went around Wotan's neck, and with a heave Franklin lifted the Immortal bodily into the air.
Wotan wailed and twisted in Franklin's grip, hoping to slip free, but Franklin's grip was like iron. He carried Wotan across the room to the altar, stepping over a prostrate cultist to reach the block of black stone. He slammed Wotan down upon it, driving the air from the Immortal's lungs and shattering his ribs.
"Huixo, if you would do the honors?" Mephisto asked. The Aztec nodded, and, drawing his scimitar, stepped up to the altar beside Franklin.
Mephistopheles inscribed a circle in the air, and muttered something in a language that was dead when the dinosaurs roamed Earth.
A hole appeared in the ceiling of the room, a tiny circle to match the one Mephisto had drawn in the air, and as Huixopotchtli raised his blade and Wotan screamed in denial, the hole widened and expanded, growing exponentially with each passing second. Mephisto raced down the stairs, into the center of the room, still pronouncing the sing-song syllables of an archaic tongue, and Huixopotchtli's sword fell, and the gap in the ceiling continued to widen, and the sword slashed through Wotan's neck, ending his scream instantly, while Mephistopheles' frantic voice filled in the silence.
The sky, dark and cloudy, glimmered through the gap in the roof. There was a pause, as if the universe itself held its breath in anticipation of the next few moments.
And then the Quickening erupted from Wotan's body, and, channeled by Mephisto's magik, it flashed electrical bolts into the vats of carmine fluid flanking the altar. The blood exploded, a swirling storm of hot, red liquid that flew upwards in waves, forming a spinning vortex that flashed crimson lightning as it ascended into the air, drawn by Mephistopheles' incantation up, up, up through the ceiling, spiraling in waves as it flew through the atmosphere, drawn inexorably into the sky.
Lightning strobed through the brooding clouds, and somewhere, a dark god awakened.
Perseus followed Mitra closely, watching as Mitra watched the ground, searching out the spoor of their quarry. All three Immortals held their swords at the ready, expecting attack from any quarter. Surprisingly, the werewolves that had earlier sought to impede their progress in the jeep, were nowhere to be seen now that they had taken to foot.
They had noticed the fires in the north, towards government center, and all three had heard the roars of some giant beast. They knew the Wyrm was loose, and that knowledge only made their search all the more imperative.
Suddenly, Perseus felt a stab of fire in his gut, and he doubled over in surprise and pain. Beside him Selura clutched her own stomach in commiseration, while Mitra stumbled in the snow, his face contorting with pain.
Perseus fought it and stood up. "Not the Buzz," he muttered. "What is it?" The pain appeared to be temporary; it was passing quickly.
Selura grabbed his elbow, and pointed at the sky. Perseus followed the line of her finger, and gasped in horror.
The clouds were breaking up, and a patch of starry sky was revealed.
And in that patch, hanging suspended in the sky, was a red wheel, spinning and whirling. The wheel was growing... Not a wheel, Perseus realized. A gate. *The* gate.
"Too late," Mitra muttered. "we're too late."
"No," Perseus growled. "Never. We fight until there is nothing left to fight for, and even then, we fight until we are no more."
Then they did feel the Buzz, creeping up their spines to connect with the reptilian centers of their brains, and a voice boomed out of the darkened mouth of a nearby alleyway. A strangely familiar voice.
"A noble sentiment, Perseus my boy. But in the end, a useless gesture. I've seen the future. And you're not in it."
A figure stepped out of the alley, into the light shed by a streetlamp, and the bearer of the familiar voice showed his face.
"Shit," Mitra breathed. Selura groaned, and tightened her grip on her blade.
Perseus took a step forward. "Hello, Kurgan," he said.
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